


Kingmaker

by WildLioness



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Political AU, griffin for president!, kingmaker, literally the west wing au that no one asked for ever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:21:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3842086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildLioness/pseuds/WildLioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy Blake has been a kingmaker all his life. Presidential elections are a bitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chief Of Staff

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble because I rewatched several episodes of west wing whilst sitting in the bath.  
> Probably with more snippets to come.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth of a kingmaker.

They are the man (or woman) behind the throne. The one in the dark suit, with two phones, a handful of files and the perpetual raised eyebrow of semi-interested disdain. Chief of staff, the ‘man to talk to’, the barricade between stupid ideas and the commander-in-chief. 

Kings are a dime a dozen, but a true kingmaker is rare. The ability to inspire, to encourage, shape a dynasty, but step back into the shadows when the spotlight is shone down. They don’t just have their fingers in many pies; they have the pulse point of others who have their fingers in all the pies. 

A kingmaker is an impressive ally, and a ruthless enemy. If you don’t move, they’ll go around you until it becomes irritating, and then you’ll be asked, once more, to step aside. Refuse, and they’ll sigh, tighten their jaw and leave. Then, next week, your brother’s shop will lose that long-term client, and your wife’s big work project will be ‘handed off’ and your daughter won’t get into the prestigious school of her dreams. 

Kingmakers learn their art at the foot of sacrifice, of pain and betrayal until it becomes obvious that to rise above, sometimes you need to stand on a pile of bodies. They’ll never sleep like babies, but that’s acceptable. 

Do what needs to be done.

It’s acceptable, because one day, they will find a cause that is worth it. Worth the guilt in the back of their mind, the faces you never forget, the sleepless nights, hours wasted on poor candidates. This true king will save their life, will pull them from mindless days, and call them to make the choices that will define them. 

Blonde hair artfully styled, in a pin skirt, heels and a business jacket, Clarke Griffin thanks her constituents, her staff, her family and friends. She thanks ‘you, the people’ for their vote and speaks of her vision of this country, of healthcare and education and diplomacy with their enemies. The spotlights are on her, as the confetti spirals down, as thousands scream “Griffin” and Cage shakes her hand, congratulates her and thanks her for ‘a good fight’. 

Bellamy stands off the stage, beside the head of the secret service, a man named Miller and the assistant chief of staff, Monty. He is dressed in a dark navy suit, with two phones in his pockets, a file in his hands and a wide smile. 

She is in the spotlight, as she should be, a true leader. A true king.


	2. Of Announcements and Offers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octavia gains a place on the Griffin presidential team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I changed her opponent to Cage Wallace, because I realised Lexa will be playing a roll in Clarke's entourage.

It’s five o’clock. Bellamy is still juggling paperwork and waiting on a return phone call from a judge friend of his. He grabs the phone when it rings, but it’s not Judge Echo, it’s Octavia.  
“Hey O. Can I call you back later? I’m waiting on a call from Echo about the new healthcare rebate bill.”

“Hi Bellamy, my favourite brother. Love you too, by the way. I was calling to tell you that Clarke Griffin’s running for president and just asked me to be her Press secretary.” The excitement in Octavia’s voice was obvious.

“Or I could call Echo back later. That’s great news O!” Bellamy sits back in his chair, wide smile bisecting his face.

“Griffin hasn’t officially announced yet, but we’re waiting for the news cycle on Monday. We’ll be fighting each other this time, big brother.” With Octavia as Clarke’s press secretary and Bellamy supporting Wallace’s bid for the White House as a consultant, they’d be meeting at a few debates as they traversed the country for votes.

“Well, that wasn’t the only reason I was calling. Clarke just lost her Chief of Staff, Finn. Apparently there were a few too many skeletons in his closet, and she had to ditch him. I suggested you.” Octavia’s voice was hopeful, but she wasn’t getting too worked up. Bellamy’s tendency to commit to something is legendary, and he’ll stand by his candidate.

“If I’d only known six months ago. Sorry O, but you know I’m committed to Wallace. I don’t care for all his policies, but he’s a decent enough guy.” Bellamy runs his hand through his hair, mussing the curls even further after a tiring day. 

“Anyway, I thought I’d let you know. I’ll let you go now, so you can call Echo, but I just wanted to call and let you know. Want to grab breakfast tomorrow at Grounders?” There is voices in the background, and one is calling Octavia’s name.

“I’m really happy for you O. Apologise to Clarke, but I’m sure she’ll find a great chief of staff. See you tomorrow.” Bellamy hung up the phone and looked at the “Wallace for President” poster that adorned the back of his office door.  
“Clarke Griffin running for president. It’ll be a tough fight.”


	3. Troops and Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Situation Room holds secrets and ugg boots.

There’s troops gathering on borders, and Clarke Griffin’s first military call as President of the United States is to stand by and keep pushing diplomatic measures.

“Madam president, we feel that moving the USS Ronald Reagan would be the best idea at this point in time. Placing her off the coast would reinforce our stance that the mustering of troops in preparation for a possible invasion is unacceptable.” The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs gestured to the map behind him, with various countries outlines and blown up satellite pictures of troop movements. 

“I came into this office saying that diplomatic relations would always be the first step, and I don’t feel we’ve fully utilised that yet.” Clarke rested her elbows on the table, tapping a finger on the file in front of her.   
It was just after midnight, and she was flying to California the following day for various meetings. It had been a rude awakening by her ‘body man’ (Monroe, looking like she’d been having a great nights sleep before that unfortunate phone call.) and then Bellamy, appearing from the corridor with a worried look and hair dishevelled. It was a running joke in the West Wing that you could tell how the day was going by looking at the state of Bellamy’s dark curls. Slicked back and all was good. Standing on end, and things were rapidly going downhill. 

It had gotten Clarke out of bed immediately, wrapped into a dressing gown and ugg boots before rushing to the Situation Room. The news had not been good.

“We’re not making any moves that aren’t diplomatic. We’re simply moving the Ronald Reagan to support the recent disaster relief operations after the earthquake. If she happens to shut down this inkling of invasion, well, that’s just a bonus, isn’t it.” The Chief of Naval Operations spoke, with various other members of the room nodding in agreement. 

“Madam President.” Bellamy looked at Clarke, one eyebrow raised, chin leaning on one up raised hand.

“Mr Blake.” The rest of the cabinet was used to this by now. The ability of the President and her chief of staff to have conversations with just a look was old hat.   
Bellamy’s raised eyebrow, “It’s a reasonable idea.”  
A rolled lip and quiet breath out from Clarke, “I promised diplomacy.”  
Shifted weight and the flicking of his gaze between her and the satellite images. “This is diplomacy. It’s just holding a gun under the table that you can use just in case.”  
The muscles in Clarke’s jaw tightened, then released. Agreement, insofar as she could keep her diplomatic pathways open. 

“We’ll move the Reagan. Our aid workers could do with more support, and whilst the likelihood of this blowing over is high, you’re correct. We need to have backup in the region.” Clarke stood, and the cabinet stood with her. “Good evening gentlemen, ladies.”

“Good Evening, Madam President.” The chamber echoed behind her as Clarke left the situation room, Bellamy on her heels.

“Good call.” They walked together through the tunnel under the West Wing, Clarke on her way back to the Residence, Bellamy to his car.

“I’m not the one with the military background. I can be briefed until the cows go home, but I’m still a little green at this.” Clarke paused before the turn back towards the residence. “Night Bellamy.”

“Good night Clarke.” They separated, both headed to bed. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all aware that I have no idea what the inside of the White House looks like, and that all this information is most likely incorrect. I thank you for suspending your disbelief whilst reading this fic.


	4. Politics: The Impossibility of Perfection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double-shot mochas and a job offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I have a tendency to jump around, time-wise, events will be referenced if needed for a basic timeline. :)

“I’m your goddamn media consultant! That means you consult me before making massive changes to your policies so I can tell you if they’ll work. We’ll lose half our backing from this. What about our gun control policies? Or education? Immigration?” Bellamy was pacing his office, hands fisting and releasing as he gestured at the empty room. “Tell Wallace I resign. I won’t be screwed to kingdom come by his sudden change of mind.” He ripped the Bluetooth headset out of his ear and dropped it onto the desk. Bellamy had put serious hours into Wallace’s media strategy. It was calculated, perfectly planned to put him in the best position for the presidency. Wallace had stability as a candidate, being white, male, and between ages 30 and 45. His previous stances had been moderate, but right wing enough to be republican. He was semi-soft on gun control, Christian and with a family history of solid politics. He had been the perfect candidate, ticking enough boxes for enough people to feel confident in him as commander-in-chief. His short stint in the military gave him ‘perspective’ and he was the owner of a small business. It was one of the easier media campaigns Bellamy was ever planning. No skeletons too big to be swept under the rug, no prostitutes or frat boy stories from the ‘good old days’.

Now Wallace had turned completely. His once moderate stance on women’s rights had turned to dust. He wanted to smash down on immigration, turn the USA into some sort of isolationist enclave. That’s not even covering his new education and the problem with this, Bellamy reasoned, was that Wallace could still win with these policies. The average American probably wouldn’t look deep enough to see the true root of the politics until it was too late. 

“Shit.” Flopping down into his chair, Bellamy grabbed his personal phone from his desk.

{To: Blake, Octavia.  
9:25pm  
So, Wallace is a crazy man}

{To: Blake, Bellamy.  
9:27pm  
Your point being???}

{To: Blake, Octavia.  
9:28pm  
I’m out of his bullshit campaign. He’s suddenly turned 1800’s conservative.}

{To: Blake, Bellamy.  
9:29pm  
WTF?!? You ditched him?}

{To: Blake, Octavia.  
9:31pm  
F yeah. Griffin got space for a media consultant?}

{To: Blake, Bellamy.  
9:33pm  
NOPE. Soz bro.}

{To: Blake, Bellamy.  
9:34pm  
SIKE! She got a place for a C-O-S tho. You want in?}

{To: Blake, Octavia.  
9:36pm  
Ur such a brat. No. of her secretary?}

{To: Blake, Bellamy.  
9:40pm  
U remember Monty? Ran Jox’s campaign in that supreme court shiz? He’s her second in command right now. Call him. }

{To: Blake, Octavia.  
9:45pm  
Will do. Night O.}

 

The following morning, Bellamy clears out the desk he inhabited at Wallace’s campaign office, signs his official pass back in, and leaves without a look back. He’s got a few jobs lined up, if this whole Griffin thing doesn’t happen, but Bellamy’s always wanted to serve on a presidential campaign. To really show his abilities, to utilise his connections for something worthwhile. And, no, worthwhile is not running the media campaign for a state senator that is running unopposed.  
Griffin’s policies look solid, and whilst there will always be the vocal minority that complain about a female running the country, thus far in his life, Bellamy’s always found that women tend to be just a little more reasonable than men. Well, perhaps not more reasonable, but more likely to discuss rather than plow ahead. What? He took a Women’s Liberation class at college, and no, it wasn’t just to pick up girls. Powerful women have played significant roles in Bellamy’s life, from the single mother that put both her kids through school on three jobs, to the sister that earned her full ride scholarship with top marks whilst working two part time jobs. Clarke Griffin can join the long line of females that Bellamy Blake admires and would totally work for.  
Returning to his apartment and dumping the box of miscellaneous crap in the corner of his home office, Bellamy interlocks his fingers, leans his elbows on the edge of his desk and stares down his phone. To call or not to call? 

“Buck up Bellamy.” He sighed. “You’re not asking for anything that hasn’t already been given.”  
He picked up the phone and dialled the number Octavia had given him. In some part of his mind, he hoped Monty wouldn’t answer.

“Monty Green, Griffin Presidential campaign.” The business voice that Bellamy knew from long ago, from past campaigns and late nights over pages of files.

“Hi Monty. It’s Bellamy Blake. I think Octavia said I’d be calling?”  
“Thank god. I thought it was Jamieson from the Wichita office. I just can’t deal with his voice anymore.” Monty had always been a little bit of an oversharer.  
“Alright then. O said to call you about working for the campaign. My time under Wallace has come to an end, and she mentioned something about a consultancy position?” Bellamy was going to come into this slowly, feel his way though before going for anything serious.  
Monty humphed.  
“She said you’d say that. You’re going for Chief of Staff, I know. “ He paused for a few seconds, then Bellamy could hear a muffled, ‘Jan, you need to speak to Oscar about that, not his secretary. Get him on the phone, cause nothing will happen otherwise.’ Monty returned. “Sorry. This place is a bit of a madhouse. I’m still new at management. I want you as Chief Of Staff, and I know Clarke does too. She told me to call you if anything happened with Wallace. She said she had ‘a feeling’.”  
Even without seeing Monty, Bellamy knew that his last comment would have come with exaggerated finger commas.  
“A feeling, hey? Well, she was right. How about we catch lunch together tomorrow and sort some stuff out?” Bellamy grabbed his tablet computer, bringing up his calendar to pencil in a time and place.  
“Or you could come down today? Like, maybe in a few hours? Bring a tall double-shot mocha and Clarke will love you for life. It’d be a good start, and I could really do with a hand. Trying to organise people is like herding cats.” Monty was wheedling now, but underneath it was worry. Worry that he couldn’t hold this together, that something would crumble and this possibility, this chance to change lives, would pass them by. Bellamy knew the feeling, knew it intimately, its curves and sharp edges and the steep drop that was just inches away. It was politics, and the impossibility of a perfect ending was the adrenaline kick they lived for.

“See you in two hours.”


	5. Locked Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grief can be a motivator or a killer. Holding it together in the worst of times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon character deaths in here, mentions of suicide that occurred in the show. If they trigger, it's probably best to avoid.

It’s four in the afternoon, and the president has a two minute gap between a National budget meeting and a foreign diplomatic call with the Ukrainian Ambassador. She’s kicked her shoes off under the desk, and is flipping through a briefing about future planning in education when Bellamy knocks twice and enters from his office next door. His face is drawn, and his skin is almost pale.  
“Madam President. I have some bad news.”  
“Did the Syrians attack our diplomatic and aid party? We should have provided more military support.” Clarke slides on her shoes, stands and prepares to head towards the Situation Room. They’ll be preparing a briefing, and she’d better get down there.

“No, Mada… Clarke. Sit down. It’s not the Syrian aid party. It’s about Wells.” Bellamy wraps his hand around her upper arm, and guides her gently to sit on one of the couches. He sits opposite. “Clarke, there was a car accident about a half hour ago. It was a head on crash with a semi trailer. The driver of the semi had a heart attack at the wheel. He’s currently in the hospital and hasn’t regained consciousness.”

He was avoiding the information Clarke wanted both most and least.

“What about Wells?” Bellamy wouldn’t look her in the eyes. He stared blankly over her head, eyes focused on the wall.

“They got Wells out of the car, and performed first aid at the scene. They couldn’t get him back. I’m so sorry Clarke. They called it.” Bellamy matched eyes with her now, expression tight with sorrow. He hadn’t been particularly fond of Wells, but he knew how much her fiancée had meant to her. 

“Wells is dead?” Clarke tapped her fingers on the coffee table between them.

“Yes. I’m really sorry Clarke. I wanted to be the one to tell you. There was nothing they could do.” Bellamy reached for her hand as Clarke crumpled into herself. There were no visible tears, but she was taking heaving breaths, body shaking as she comprehended the news. She had known Wells her whole life, since they were toddlers, through college and into the adult world. Their relationship had been almost predestined, living next door to each other, and so their eventual dating was merely the next step. 

“Oh my god, I need to get out of here. I need to get out right now.” Clarke wipes her face with one hand, and attempts to stand. She is shaky, and Bellamy rushes to support her, holding her arm as she kicks off her heels, and nearly falls as she reaches to grab them.  
“I’ve got them, don’t worry.” Wrapping one arm around her shoulders, Bellamy picks up her heels, and calls to Mel, Clarke’s secretary. “Cancel all of today’s appointments, anything incredibly important to call my mobile.”  
“Yes sir.” Mel stands at the door to the Oval Office, eyes wide and mouth half open. She was not here from the beginning, did not watch Bellamy and Clarke win this White House with the strength of words and the belief in her message. She did not see Monty break down in tears of relief when the primaries were called, did not put her emotions aside when a young staffer stepped in front of a bus only seventy-two hours before the final debate. There is rarely room for emotions that aren’t pride or rage in this government, and this is the first time Clarke has been anything but composed. 

When they reach the door, Clarke shrugs off Bellamy’s supporting arm.  
“I can’t look weak.”  
“Madam President, you are anything but.” So they walk out of the Oval Office, Clarke in a dishevelled navy skirt suit, padding along the pathway in her stockings. Her mascara is smearing, face tear streaked, but she walks past her Marine guards with her head held high. Bellamy a step behind, phone to his ear, rerouting calls and meetings. He holds Clarke’s black heels in the other hand. He trails her the whole way to the residence, settles her in, and waits till her mother arrives. He returns to the office and begins making calls. 

It will not be an easy or an early night. It will mark the darkest week of the Griffin presidency, with Clarke brimming with grief and the Vice President and Bellamy duelling it out as crucial bills pass Congress only through the sheer force of the White House senior staff's willpower. They will not let their President down, no matter how many late night meetings or favours they call in.

It will be the photograph that defines the Griffin administration. The president, damaged but not broken, grief etched on her face, and her second in command, only a step behind, watching her back even in the worst times, carrying that which she cannot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next chapter will be a) longer, and b) about Bellamy's backstory.


	6. We learn our lessons at the foot of the gods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got another chapter written. Huzzah.  
> So let's pretend that everything I wrote about the military is clearly correct and not at all based in fiction. Also, let's pretend that this dean of students cares super hard about all his students, and specifically Bellamy, for, reasons I didn't come up with. The joys of fiction.
> 
> Bellamy's (promised) backstory. No Clarke in this chapter. Sorry.  
> :)

At age fifteen, Bellamy Blake is working nights stocking groceries, and weekends at a coffee shop. He is passing school above average and is already planning his future.

He has two choices at this point. Continue on with school and still not go to college (he doesn’t have the money, and probably never will) or finish school at eighteen and head straight for the officer’s academy in whatever armed forces will take him. Bellamy knows he can make the physical requirements, and will also fulfil the ‘multicultural requirement’ that they’re looking for. Plus, a low socio-economic bracket, and the sob story of his father, an ex-serviceman, means it’s not a given, but every single inch he gets puts him a step closer to his future.

At eighteen, Bellamy walks into a navy recruiter’s office, and after a fifteen-minute discussion, two phone calls, and every bit of paperwork that Bellamy can provide on his situation, he signs on the dotted line, and sends off his application.

 

Three weeks later, Bellamy gets the letter and packs his bags. In four years he’ll have a science degree, with a minor in world politics, and a job that will pay him enough that he can help put his sister through college. It’s hard, and he hates it sometimes, but at the same time, it’s everything he’s wanted.

Two years in, Bellamy is second in his class, topping his world politics class, and has come under the attention of the dean of students. Positively, thank god.

“I understand that you are very involved in your world politics class Cadet Blake. I’ve heard good things from your teachers.”

“Thank you, Brigadier Stevens, sir. I am very much enjoying the class. It’s interesting to see how world events affect our military.”

“I’ve called you in today because there’s an overseas placement coming up, that I’d like you to apply for. It’s more politically motivated than the other placements, and I believe you would be a very good fit.”

“It would be an honour to apply sir, I’ve been looking at the overseas placements. However, I haven’t applied yet because of my sister, sir.”

“Your sister? I believe on your forms; it states you have a parent who is currently her guardian.”

“My mother works incredibly hard, and she hasn’t been well, sir. I was concerned that if her health issues deteriorated, I wanted to be in the country to support my sister. I wish I could apply sir, but I want to be here in case anything happens.”

“I can assure you, Cadet Blake, that if anything arose with your family, the Corps would support you. I strongly encourage you to take this placement. It’s an opportunity you won’t get again.”

“Thank you again, Brigadier Stevens sir. I’ll think hard about the placement sir.”

“Dismissed, Cadet.”

 

Bellamy Blake applies for, and receives an overseas placement for twelve months in Russia. It opens his eyes, both with the military differences between the countries, and politically. He is assigned as one of four top students to trail a politically active general. Bellamy Blake learns the art of dirty politics, clean politics, dirty politics that looks like clean politics, and the well versed art of holding your opponents by the metaphorical balls until they show their bellies.  

Russia was the enemy of the US for long enough to it be second nature to distrust them, but not long enough to allow that distrust to be obvious.

Bellamy has spent many nights watching every political drama ever made, and nothing, _absolutely nothing_ is as good as the real thing. It’s like teetering on the edge of the steep cliff, the adrenaline of a good argument, the best hate-sex you’ve ever had.

 

Bellamy wants to do this for the rest of his life.

 

These white knuckle nights of policy decisions, the few times he’s seen behind the curtain. These are the nights he will remember for the rest of his life.

The general uses his four students as message runners. They bolt all over the building, even Bellamy, the token American, and the token half East-Asian kid. He’s a reasonable power play, which the general notices within the first four hours. Especially once he picks Bellamy’s ability to read body language, and his tendency to fade into the background (as much as a freckly, dark skinned six-foot-or-so American kid in the office of a Russian politico can manage).

Bellamy is the runner you send for the fence sitter; the back bencher you desperately need. Intimidating enough that no one has ever stopped him from delivering a message (unlike poor Veronika, the single female in the top four. She is relatively short, and unimposing until she has a few drinks in her) but, well, ‘cutesy’ enough that the secretaries, both male and female, offer him a seat every time he has to wait for more than a minute on a message.

The two months he spends in the offices of the Kremlin are the best kind of crazy. The type you rewind in your head at the end of each day, a little shocked that _this is my life now_. Bellamy thanks whatever god or goddess is watching his ass, and his mother, for teaching him to work that ass off to get where he wants.

 

Bellamy returns to the United States with the ability to speak Russian, a love of really shitty vodka (the kind you make under your stairs in a barrel rescued from the dump) and the knowledge that whatever he does with the rest of his life, it better bloody well involve politics.

 

Another year in the academy, and he will be released upon the world. This is a mildly terrifying thought, but Bellamy is going to ignore that until it punches him in the face.

He is called once again to the dean, to speak about his overseas experience. He speaks of his time in the Kremlin with joy and wonder, the cat and mouse of politics, the double edged sword of hard choices.

The dean huffs under his breath.

“Hearing you speak of it; I have another opportunity for you. You will finish at the academy in a little under eight months. There will be a job opening for a low level advisor to Congresswoman Griffin. If asked, and it is likely I will be, I will be suggesting you for the position, Cadet Blake.”

Bellamy is speechless. Jaw dropped. He blinks slowly, once, twice.

“Brigadier Stevens sir. I. This. Congresswoman.” He shuts his mouth, breaths deep, and formulates a sentence that doesn’t make him sound like a blushing twelve-year-old. “I would be honoured to work for the congresswoman. Sir.”

 

And so starts Bellamy’s addiction to late nights, the television program ‘Debate on the Hill’, terrible take-away food and the ‘hurry up and sit in a holding pattern’ life of politics.

It’s the best thing he’s ever done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed hearing a bit about how Bellamy gets where he is. It's a little ridiculous, but hey, season three comes out SEVEN DAYS BEFORE MY BIRTHDAY (clearly a gift from the television gods) so I shall do as I please.
> 
> Let me know what you think! I love to hear from you all. 
> 
> And yes, I do have a friend whose housemate makes shitty vodka under his stairs in a barrel from the dump. I'm not kidding. It smells terrifying.


End file.
